


Blossoms Under Grey Skies

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Depression, First Dates, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Peter raising Derek and Cora, Post-Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Scarred Peter Hale, Scars, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Therapist Stiles Stilinski, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28214895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: Peter runs his aunt's little flower shop and tries to raise Derek and Cora as best as he can, despite all the trauma and the scars, which make it hard for him to get out of bed in the morning sometimes. Stiles stumbles into Peter's shop one rainy day, searching his mother's favourite flowers, to put them on her grave. The meeting changes their lives.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 24
Kudos: 324





	Blossoms Under Grey Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yorit1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorit1/gifts).



> My Steter Secret Santa gift for yorit1, hope you like it :)

The bell rings and a young man stumbles into Peter’s shop, his jacket dripping water and his shoes leaving muddy footprints on the floor. 

Peter glances up from his book and eyes the heavily breathing stranger who is looking around, fumbling with the buttons of his jacket. He obviously doesn’t have an umbrella with him, since his hair is soaking wet too, hanging into his pale face heavily. 

“Can I help you?” Peter asks, putting his book away. 

The man winces. He turns his head, looks at Peter and winces again.

Peter keeps a straight face. He is used to this kind of reaction. He just waits for the man to process the sight of his scarred face and blind eye. 

“Uh. Yeah. I’m searching for, uh, flowers,” the young man eventually stammers, flushing. His scent is a combination of embarrassment and … astonishment? Interesting. 

Peter smirks. “Well. You certainly came to the right place for that.”

He gets up slowly and limps around his desk, ducking to avoid the hanging leaves of the _Ceropegia woodii_ , also going by the name String of Hearts, a tropical plant with ivy-like hanging leaves that has been growing like crazy lately, apparently aiming to reach the floor. 

The shop is small and the plants are plenty. Usually, people who come in are so transfixed by the green and color everywhere around them, they barely pay attention to Peter. This young man is different though. His eyes do flicker around, but they always settle on Peter again, bright and attentive. 

Nemo, the shop cat is faster than Peter. He approaches the newcomer with his tail raised and only ear perked up - he lost the other one in a quarrel with a street cat, apparently. Peter isn’t sure, since the cat decided to make his shop his home all by himself one day, and Peter didn’t have the heart to throw him out again. - rubbing against his legs and meowing. “Hey there,” the man mutters and reaches down with a smile, stroking the cat between his ears. 

Peter uses the moment to take a closer look and get a better whiff of the man. He smells nice. Not too much cheap perfume. His hair carries a vague note of almond. He has long lashes and amber eyes. There is a moon-shaped scar on his nose and another one at his long neck. Peter wonders if they come from a werewolf’s claw. They could, judging by the shapes. He ends his observation, finding that the man is certainly attractive in a non-conventional interesting way - for a human at least - and clears his throat. 

“What are the flowers for, Mr. ...?” 

The young man jumps a little and straightens up, blinking at Peter. “Stiles,” he says and abruptly flushes a deeper red. “I mean, I’m Stiles Stilinski. But everyone just calls me Stiles.” 

The name rings a bell. Peter searches through his memories and finds a Sheriff Stilinski in them, vaguely remembering his kind face. The Sheriff was at the hospital, wrapping a blanket around Cora, who fell asleep from all the crying … Peter shakes his head, snapping himself out of the pictures. He thinks he heard that the Sheriff moved away a few years ago.

“Stiles,” he repeats, tasting the strange name on his tongue. “Are the flowers for a special occasion?”

A hint of sadness flicks over Stiles’ amber eyes. “They are for my mother’s grave. She loved flowers. But she was picky. I wanted to find her favourites. But the other shop doesn’t have them and I thought … I thought I’d try my luck here.” 

Peter nods. A lot of people come here to find flowers for a grave. Of course, the flowers aren’t for the dead, but for the living. For finding some comfort in all the pain of loss. Peter is familiar with loss. He has enough graves he brings flowers to, together with Derek and Cora.

“What were your mother's favourites?” he asks. 

To his delight, Stiles doesn’t start to stumble through “Something purple, or was it red?” like a lot of his customers do, but instead uses the precise term, “Regal Pelargoniums.”

“Ah. She had wonderful taste,” Peter nods, walking past Stiles towards the exit. He keeps the pelargoniums near the sunniest window. Stiles follows him discreetly, and Peter is even more delighted by the lack of impatience coming from him. A lot of people, once they noticed Peter’s scars and limp, can’t be out of the shop fast enough. 

“Here they are,” Peter says, pointing at the dark red leaves stretching towards the window, although the sky is like grey velvet today and leaves the sun no chance to break through. 

“Yes,” Stiles breathes and smiles. The corners of his eyes start to gleam. “These were her favourites. Thank you.” 

Peter takes his time with the bouquet. He even pulls out his fanciest ribbons for it, while watching Stiles from the corner of his eyes. Something about this young man intrigues him. The way he now looks at each plant, with curious sparkling eyes and an elegant bend in his neck. He wonders why he has never seen Stiles around here. The village isn’t that big, after all. 

Stiles beams when Peter hands him the bouquet. “Thank you. It is beautiful,” he says sincerely. 

“You are welcome,” Peter says, returning the smile although it pulls at the scars. He can’t remember when he has smiled so much for the last time.

A silent moment passes and Peter listens to Stiles’ heartbeat, surprised, when it ticks up a bit. Stiles clears his throat and flushes again. Red blossoms on his cheeks, spreads to his neck, and Peter finds himself wondering, if it goes all the way down to his chest. “Well … Thank you, again. Goodbye,” Stiles finally says, reaching out the hand not holding the bouquet. 

Peter is prepared to use his unmarked hand for the handshake, but Stiles reaches for the scarred one, closing his fingers around it without hesitation and squeezing softly. Peter can’t feel Stiles’ skin through the scar tissue, but he can feel a hint of warmth. And a lump forming in his throat. His eyes meet Stiles' over their hands and something … clicks. 

“I’m Peter,” he says, not even sure why he feels the need to introduce himself to this man. 

Stiles smiles. “Bye, Peter.” He lets go and turns around, walking out of the shop. The bell rings and Peter stares after Stiles, until he turns around a corner, looking up at the sky, where the sun finally managed to break through the wall of clouds. It stopped raining. 

Peter swallows and turns around, right into Nemo’s greenish eyes. The cat stares at him from where he is sitting on the desk, tilting his head. “What?” Peter asks, arching a brow. Nemo starts to purr and rubs his cheek against a leaf of the big coconut palm standing beside the desk.

Peter shakes his head and decides to go back to his book. 

* * *

Ever since the fire, life is divided into good and bad days. There is no middle ground. 

At least, there is something like a routine now, a few months after Peter was finally able to leave the hospital. Life has to go on. Because even if it feels like it stopped, it didn’t. Not for them. 

The first thing he did was to get Derek and Cora out of their temporary foster family - werewolves too, thankfully - and rent an apartment. A small apartment in a huge building with many families. Of course, Peter could have rented something way bigger and more remote - something more suitable for three werewolves - but he wants to be as anonymous and unobtrusive as possible. Who knows after all, if the hunters who laid the fire aren’t still here? 

The hospital organised a therapist for the kids and they are still going there, every third day after school. 

Although Peter had plenty of money in the vault that wasn’t discovered by the rogue hunters, he decided to take over the flower shop his aunt had kept - not because they needed the money, but because she loved all kinds of plants. He didn’t have the heart to sell it. He spent many good hours here, when he was younger, his aunt teaching him the plant’s names and characteristics, while also giving him the comfort and attention he didn’t get from his own parents. They were too focused on Talia and her destiny. Peter was too late and even worse, he was a surprise they didn’t want to have. 

The moment Peter stepped into the little, dusty, abandoned shop and switched the light on, everything came back. He had to breathe himself out of an upcoming panic attack, before he could start to investigate the shop’s state. 

His family wasn’t always what he wanted or imagined. There was bad blood and there was disappointments. But there was also comfort, support and help if needed. There were the pups who looked up to him and wanted him to teach them. And now … There was nothing. Just ash. 

No, he often has to remind himself. There is not nothing. He is still here. And Derek and Cora. They have no one else. He has to be strong for them. Has to keep on going, even though sometimes, he barely manages to get out of bed and look at his destroyed face in the mirror. 

He has to. 

So he gets up in the morning when it is still dark, he prepares lunch for the kids, he wakes them up and makes them eat something before he packs them into the car and drives them to school. 

After that, he goes to the shop, sits behind his desk and waits. He never has many customers, but he doesn’t care. There are a few regulars, like Anna, an elderly woman who always brings cake when she comes to pick up her flowers. Who asks for Cora and Derek, who knew aunt Marissa and tells him it’s a shame that some people are still so hateful towards werewolves. So hateful, that they are able to burn down a house with a whole pack - with _children_ \- inside. 

Peter both likes and dreads her visits. He dreads everything that reminds him of that night. He doesn’t talk about it. With no one. 

When school is over, he goes to pick up the kids and brings them back to the apartment. Sometimes, he has to go back to the shop after. Thankfully, Derek is old enough to keep an eye on Cora for a while and old enough to prepare a decent meal. He does it without complaining. In fact, he doesn’t talk a lot at all, ever since the fire. 

It’s not a wonder. Derek and Cora are both traumatized. They lost their mother and father, their cousins, aunts and an uncle, all in one night. And Peter still feels guilty when he thinks back to when he woke up in the hospital, with Cora and Derek sitting beside his bed, wide-eyed, scared and crying, begging him to get better. He tried. He really tried. But it took time. And the kids had to go somewhere. He still feels guilty that they had to stay with strange people after everything that happened. 

When he has his regular appointments in the hospital, Melissa tells him he shouldn’t feel this way. Shouldn’t feel guilty because it’s not his fault. None of it. But he can’t help it. The feeling still returns whenever he thinks back. 

Sometimes, Derek screams at night and doesn’t stop until Peter slips under the blanket with him. Often enough, Cora crawls into bed with them after a few moments, shivering and whining, and they end up in a big snuggle heap. Sometimes, it’s Peter who screams. Sometimes, it’s him who lifts his blanket for the two pups. 

They are all tired, sad and damaged. But they are here and life has to go on. It goes on like plants do. They grow and hang on to life, even though the conditions aren’t always ideal. Peter still remembers finding the cacti and succulents in the abandoned shop. The only plants still fighting. The only ones blooming after a while. 

They are his favourites now. They are enduring and they bloom, even if life throws stones at them.

When Peter returns home after meeting Stiles, he feels strangely euphoric, so he orders pizza and puts on a movie. Derek and Cora snuggle against him on the couch, smelling content for the first time in ages. He wraps his arms around them and wonders if Stiles would have said yes, if Peter asked him out. It’s been ages since he had a date. The idea is kind of nice.

But then, he laughs with the kids, about something that happens in the Disney movie, and feels the tug of the scars. It makes the euphoric feeling go away. Who, he thinks, would go out with someone everyone’s staring at? 

* * *

The day he has his hospital appointment is a bad day. 

Peter barely makes it out of bed in the morning, he doesn’t have the time to take a shower, and the kids come too late to school. He feels miserable and almost doesn’t drive to the hospital, but he reminds himself that he has to go to these appointments. Otherwise, they will take a look at how he handles life, himself and most importantly the two kids that aren’t his own. They might decide he’s not stable enough to take care of them and put them back into the foster family. Peter shivers at that thought. No. That can’t happen. The kids are the only thing that keep him going.

Sometimes, Peter thinks he would prefer if people still didn’t know werewolves exist. 

Melissa seems to sense his foul mood, because she doesn’t even try to ask him how he is feeling. She just checks his vitals, draws some blood and wants to take a look at the scars. All of them. 

Peter undresses. He hates this. Hates to lay open his destroyed body. It shouldn’t be like this. He is a werewolf. He has advanced healing. He can’t be ill, can’t get killed by normal things like a car crash, but he is still weak and miserable. The scars cover most his right side, from his face down his chest, his arm and his leg. He feels them at every step he takes. 

They won’t go away. The wolfsbane in the smoke and the flames was enough to prevent full healing. He’s stuck with the scars, the useless eye, the ache, the nerve damage and the limp.

“How’s the pain?” Melissa asks, while carefully prodding his side. 

“Bearable. Right now, I barely feel anything. It’s worse on rainy days,” Peter mutters, staring into the void and wishing he could be anywhere else. Or asleep. Yeah. That would be preferable. 

Melissa hums. She glances up at him and Peter looks away. 

“You lost weight again,” she tells him, writing something on her chart. 

Peter shrugs. “I don’t really have an appetite at the moment.” 

“Are you taking your meds?” 

Peter grits his teeth. “No. They make me antsy.” 

“What about the panic attacks?” Melissa asks gently. “Do you still have them?” 

Peter clenches his hands into fists and tries to stay calm. He feels angrier with every passing second, but Melissa is just doing her job. And he likes her. She does respect him, contrary to some of the other nurses and doctors here, who wrinkle their nose when they see him, because he is a freak of nature to them. “Sometimes,” he admits. “I’m handling them.” 

“Hm. Any difficulties getting out of bed in the morning? Or with low energy?” she asks, looking at him attentively. Every question hits the mark.

Peter huffs. “It’s fine. I’m handling myself. I’m taking care of the kids.” He falls silent and looks away. 

Melissa waits for a moment. Eventually, she says, “Look, I am not a werewolf, Peter. But I am good at spotting a lie.” To his surprise, she puts her hand on his scarred shoulder, applying gentle pressure. “I don’t doubt that you are handling life, that you try your best to take care of Derek and Cora, but … you have to take care of yourself too. You went through a horrendous amount of trauma in a very short amount of time and you had to take care of two traumatized kids immediately after. No one is expecting you to be fine. It’s alright to ask for help and to accept it. It’s alright to admit you are struggling. I know Derek and Cora see a therapist, you really should talk to someone too. It can help to get things off your chest. To get it out of your head.” 

She pulls out a little card and hands it to him. “This is an agentur that can help you to find a therapist for adult werewolves,” she explains. 

Peter swallows. He takes the card and looks at the letters. “Thank you,” he says quietly. What Melissa said echoes through him. She has a point. He doesn’t like it, but it is a fact. It makes sense. He thinks of today, thinks how difficult it was to get out of bed, how it felt to know Derek and Cora would be late for school. He can’t go on like this. He has to get better too. 

He makes an appointment later that day. 

* * *

Two days pass after Melissa gave him the card. 

Two good days. There is no struggle and no screams. When he enters his shop after bringing the kids to school, Peter is on the edge of cancelling the appointment he made. Or to just not go there. No one can force him to. He is alright most of the time, he can deal with the times he isn’t himself, right? 

Peter’s hand is already wandering towards his phone, when the bell rings. He winces and looks up. 

Stiles walks into the shop. It isn’t raining today and Stiles’ hair is dry, all mussed up, like he just got out of bed. “Hey, Peter,” he says, smiling. 

Peter forgets about his phone. He gets up and walks around the desk. “Stiles. How can I help you?” he asks, smiling carefully. “Do you need more flowers?” 

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but right that moment, a fire truck races past the shop, sirens starting to blare. Peter jumps violently as his delicate senses get overflowed and his wolf shrieks, clawing at his mental walls. He groans and presses both hands onto his ears, closing his eyes. 

Sirens … Smoke wavers, making the stars disappear. The taste of ash in his mouth. His body is burning. He can feel it. It’s so hot … 

He can’t breathe. 

Peter supports himself with both hands on the edge of the desk, bending over and gasping, trying frantically to catch his breath. No. No! He is not going to have a panic attack right in front of Stiles. No … His denial only makes it worse.

“Peter?” Stiles' voice cuts through his frantic thoughts. He is closer now, and Peter growls without thinking. “It’s okay, I am not going to touch you. I just want you to know I’m there,” Stiles says, his voice calm and slow. It feels like an anchor. “Can you listen to my heartbeat? Match your breathing with it.”

Although something is off about Stiles' suggestion, Peter tries. Stiles’ heart beats evenly. He focuses on the rhythmic sound and exhales. Then inhales. 

“There you go,” Stiles says. “That’s it. Just breathe.” 

Peter obeys. After a few minutes, he can feel himself calming down. The first conscious thought he has is, _he knows_. _He knows what I am_. “You know I’m a werewolf?” he asks, carefully straightening up, his legs still feeling a bit weak. “How?” 

Stiles smiles crookedly. “Uh. Experience? I just figured. You reacted so strongly to the noise. I’ve seen that before.” 

Peter nods. He avoids Stiles’ eyes, feeling like an idiot for breaking down right in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. 

“You have nothing to apologize for. And you don’t have to explain,” Stiles says quietly. 

Peter exhales shakily. How can Stiles be so understanding? It is strange, but it feels like they have known each other for some time, not like Stiles just stumbled into his shop a week ago, asking for flowers … 

Peter tells himself to get a grip and asks Stiles, as composed as possible, “Now, how can I help you today?” 

Stiles flushes a soft strawberry pink. He clears his throat and shifts his weight, suddenly looking nervous. “Well … I was wondering, if you’d like to grab a coffee sometime? With me?” he asks breathlessly, flushing a deeper red after the words left his lips. 

Peter blinks in surprise. Did he hear that right? Apparently yes, because Stiles looks at him both expectantly and hopeful. 

His first instinct is to deny. He is broken and his life is a struggle. But … doesn’t he deserve something nice for once? Something brightening up all the grey misery he bathes himself in?

Screw it, Peter thinks. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Yes. I’d love that.”

Stiles beams at him. “Awesome. Uh, Saturday? At three?”

Peter nods. “Saturday.” 

Stiles beams some more. It makes his eyes sparkle. Like warm honey. Peter loves it. It makes his stomach flutter. 

He decides to go to his appointment, after all. If he really is going to give this a chance, he needs to give himself a chance of healing too. 

* * *

Peter asks a neighbour to have an eye on Cora and Derek before he drives to his appointment. 

He waits nervously while the receptionist is still phoning, looking around. The office is nice. Not too crowded and painted in mild yellow and green. It’s unobtrusive and doesn’t agitate his senses, which, he guesses, was their intention, since they focus on werewolves. 

While he’s waiting, a familiar scent suddenly comes his way and his breath hitches. “Stiles?” he asks, shocked, and turns around to a man who was just about to grab himself a cup of coffee from a little kitchen. 

It is Stiles. 

He looks at Peter, his eyes widening. “Oh. Hey, Peter. Uh, what are you doing here?” Stiles asks, flustered, the hand holding the cup of coffee frozen on its way to his mouth. 

“I have an appointment,” Peter says. “Now.” 

Stiles blinks. “You have an appointment. Oh. You must be _my_ appointment.” He blushes violently. 

Peter is at loss for words. “You are a therapist?” he finally gets out. 

The world is so small … 

Stiles clears his throat. “Yeah. I am. Listen … I can ask Tom to find someone else for you,” he says, "if you’re uncomfortable with ...” 

“No,” Peter says quickly. “No, I … It’s fine.” 

A smile spreads on Stiles’ face, making his eyes warm like honey. He opens a door. “Okay. Come in.” 

* * *

Stiles’ office is not what Peter would have imagined. It is small and tidy. Pictures of the forest are hanging on the walls. There are a few plants in the corners. Peter knows the names of all of them. 

There is also a fish tank. Anemones are floating in the water gently and little orange fish are swimming between them. 

There is no sound from outside and Peter realizes the windows and doors must be soundproof. 

He settles on a green couch and watches as Stiles puts his mug on the desk and sits, shoving a heap of paper aside and reaching for a pen. 

“So, you’re working as a therapist. For … for people like me,” Peter says, still feeling incredibly flustered. Though, it makes so much more sense now, that Stiles reacted so calmly when Peter had the panic attack.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. For werewolves. I’ve been working in this profession for almost three years now. After going to college and finding out it wasn’t for me, I went to a Druid and learned everything I could about werewolves. I kind of inherited the interest in everything supernatural from my Mum. I've been away from Beacon Hills for a long time. And now, I’m back and working here.” He smiles weakly. 

Peter suddenly has a bad feeling. He doesn’t want it to be real, but he has to check. “Did you ask me out just because you find my kind interesting?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

“No,” Stiles immediately says, calm and without a hitch in his breath or heartbeat. “No, Peter. I am only interested in you. I didn’t realize you are a werewolf, when I came into your shop first. I just … I felt something, when I looked at you. When we talked. I couldn’t stop thinking about you the whole day and the whole week after.” He flushes a little again. “I thought someone like you wouldn’t go out with someone as boring and pasty like me, but I decided to try. Then … that fire truck came along.” He shrugs. 

Peter realizes that it doesn’t matter to Stiles. Like the scars don’t seem to matter. Or the fact that he is weak and damaged. “I thought about asking you out, too,” he admits and now Stiles looks surprised. “But … I don’t know. I didn’t think you would be interested in … in someone like me.” He involuntarily reaches up and touches his scars. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything. So Peter adds, “I’m struggling. I … I am trying to take care of two kids, my niece and nephew. I think I manage most days, but … there are some that are really difficult. There are flashbacks and nightmares and panic attacks, like the one you saw. I don’t know how long I can do this. I don’t know how to get myself out of this. I don’t even know if I deserve to get out of it, since I … I screwed up …” He stops, feeling helpless and a little surprised that he said so much. That he opened up to Stiles like this. But then, when he looks at Stiles, he feels like he is in a safe place. 

Stiles nods. “Coming to a therapist is the first step in changing something. You went on without it for so long, because you had something to go on for. You pushed your own trauma aside and now realize that it doesn’t go away. It stays with you, like a filled suitcase you can’t empty.” 

Peter exhales shakily. “That … describes it really well, I think. Yes,” he says, tilting his head. 

Stiles smiles. “I can help you unpack your suitcase. You are safe here. Nothing you say will get out of here. You can just start to get the things out of the suitcase and leave them here, then take your suitcase, fill it with new things. How does that sound?” 

Peter nods and relaxes a bit more, allowing himself to feel the softness of the couch cushions. “I think I can work with that. I just don’t really know where to start.” 

“Why not at what you feel is the beginning?” Stiles suggests. 

The beginning. The fire. Peter shivers. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll try. It’s just … I have never talked about this before.” 

“It’s okay. Take your time,” Stiles says gently. 

Peter does. It takes him a long while until he feels like he can start. He brings the pictures back, gets them out of the suitcase, and ignores his wolf’s startled whine. 

“A year ago, I was driving home to celebrate the birthday of my sister. It was also the night of a pack gathering, because of a special full moon. I … I got stuck in traffic and it took me long to get to the house. When I arrived, it was burning. My family was stuck in the basement. I could hear them screaming. I didn’t think. I just ran inside. By the time I ran into the mountain ash barrier, my clothes had already caught fire. I barely noticed it. I … I tried to break through. To get to them. But I couldn’t. I could only listen to the screams, the coughing, the … the dying.”

Peter closes his eyes and shivers, as every single picture of his own personal hell rises up to the surface of his mind. “I couldn’t save them,” he breathes. “I couldn’t … I wanted to die there, too. When I realized there was no way to save them, I wanted to die with them. But … firefighters pulled me out. I was too weak to fight them, because of the smoke inhalation and my injuries. I passed out when they carried me to an ambulance. When I woke up, my body was covered in bandages and I was so high on morphium, I couldn’t understand what the doctor told me. Only after a few weeks, I was conscious enough to understand that my family died. That I was too hurt to leave the hospital, that there was wolfsbane in the flames and in the smoke, damaging me beyond repair. They told me they put Derek and Cora in a foster family for now and that I might get the right to take care of them, once I was healed well enough.”

Peter sighs heavily, looking down at his scarred hand. “The injuries were so bad, the scars will never go away. I have nerve damage at some points of my body, which means I can’t really feel things there anymore. They never found out who set the fire. The investigations are still running. If it wasn’t for Derek and Cora, I think I would have tried to find the hunters who did it. I might have gone crazy with thoughts of revenge. And I might have allowed it. But … I have to be there for them. They lost so much and they only have me now.” He stops, feeling incredibly exhausted. 

“I am sorry for your loss,” Stiles says quietly. 

Peter nods. He feels slightly overwhelmed. Only now, he suddenly realizes how much everything still hurts. He never really tried to process it, always distracted himself with his tasks. But Melissa was right. He can’t keep doing that. It will crush him, eventually. And he doesn’t want that. Not only because of Derek and Cora, also because he is still young and alive. Because life goes on and he suddenly sees, there are things worth living for. Things he wants to be able to enjoy. 

He looks up into Stiles’ amber eyes. They are somewhat … sad. Peter thinks he knows the reason for that. It is not only what Stiles has just heard. “Do you still want to get that cup of coffee?” he asks. 

Stiles arches a brow. “Are you sure? I don't hink it is professional to go on a date with my client,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

“I don’t mind,” Peter says and smiles. “I don’t mind at all, Stiles.” 

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, suddenly very serious again. “Let’s go after our appointment, alright?” 

“Alright.” 

Later, when they sit opposite each other and Peter couldn’t care less about the occasional stares thrown into his direction, because he’s so focused on the different shades of brown and gold in Stiles’ eyes, he thinks that it was a fortune he decided to keep the flower shop. 

Or maybe, it was faith. Who knows. 

Whatever it was, Peter is happy it happened.

When they finish their coffee and get up, Stiles reaches up to cup his scarred cheek and Peter leans into the touch, his stomach fluttering with feelings he tried to forget. 

Happiness is a flower inside his chest, blooming suddenly and beautifully, like the blossom of an enduring, slow growing succulent. 


End file.
